A Family of Her Own. Brenda Novak

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СКАЧАТЬ curiosity enough that he braked. He owned the only tow truck in the area, which was currently at his shop. But he hadn’t received a distress call on his radio. Yet.

      Where was the driver? He couldn’t see anyone inside or around the vehicle. Whoever owned the Cadillac had probably already walked or hitched into town, looking for help. But if the smoke pouring from beneath the hood was any indication, the car hadn’t been sitting too long.

      Chewing thoughtfully on his toothpick, he pulled up behind the stranded vehicle, left his lights on so he could see and climbed out. If the car was unlocked and he could get under the hood, it would probably be smart to take a look while he was here. Chances were the car had a busted hose—a problem he could solve without going to the trouble of towing the Cadillac to his shop in town.

      The moment he stepped out of his truck, however, he realized he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. Someone—a woman, judging by her size—peered at him from around the front of the car. She was wearing a man-size sweatshirt with a hood that shielded her face from the rain, a pair of faded jeans with bottoms a little wider than he typically saw in these parts and—his eyes darted back to her feet—sandals? In February?

      The car had California plates. Leave it to someone from sunny California to run around in sandals all winter.

      He shrugged on his leather jacket as he walked over, stopping well short of her. He didn’t want to frighten her. He only wanted to get her car going so he’d be able to meet Rebecca and Josh for a drink at the Honky Tonk and not be interrupted later. “Having trouble?” he asked above the sound of the wind.

      “No.” She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt farther forward. “Everything’s fine.”

      The wind made it difficult for him to hear. He took the toothpick out of his mouth and moved closer. “Did you say everything’s fine?”

      She moved back a distance equal to his advance. “Yes. You can go on your way.”

      Booker glanced at the smoke rising from her car. He might’ve thought it was just steam coming off a warm engine on a cold night. Except steam didn’t explain the luggage or why this woman was standing on the side of the road in a sweatshirt so wet it dripped along the hem. And it sure as hell didn’t explain the distinctive scent of a burned-up engine.

      “Everything doesn’t smell fine,” he said.

      “I’m just letting the engine cool.”

      The engine was going to need a lot more than a good cooling. He could tell that without even looking at it. But Booker didn’t say so because this time when she’d spoken, something about her voice had sparked a flicker of recognition.

      The California license plate flashed through his mind. He didn’t know anyone from California, except…God, it couldn’t be…

      “Katie?” he said, trying to make out her face despite the shadow of her hood.

      He saw her shoulders droop. “It’s me,” she said. “Go ahead and gloat.”

      Booker didn’t respond right away. He didn’t know what to say. Or how to feel. But gloating was pretty far down on his list. Mostly he wanted to leave so he wouldn’t have to see her again. Only he couldn’t abandon her, or any woman, on the side of the road in the cold rain. “You need a lift?”

      She hesitated briefly. Then her chin came up. “No, that’s okay. My dad’s good with cars. He’ll help me.”

      “Does he know you’re out here?”

      A slight hesitation, then, “Yeah, he’s expecting me. He’ll know when I don’t show up.”

      Booker put the toothpick back in his mouth. Part of him suspected she was lying. The other part, the stronger part, felt immediate relief that she was somebody else’s problem. “I’ll take off, then. Your dad can call me if he has any questions.”

      He strode briskly to his truck, but she followed him before he could make his escape.

      With a sigh, he rolled down his window. “Is there something else?”

      “Actually I’m here a little earlier than planned and—” she hugged herself, shivering “—well, it’s possible that my parents won’t miss me for a while. I think I’d be better off taking that ride you offered, if you don’t mind.”

      Everything’s fine…. She’d said so when he first pulledup. Why couldn’t he have taken her at her word and let her remain anonymous?

      The pain and resentment he’d felt two years ago, when she’d closed the door in his face, threatened to consume him again. But considering the circumstances, he had to help her. What choice did he have?

      “What’s with the sandals?” he asked.

      She gazed down at her soaked feet. “I bought them in San Francisco. They’re one of a kind, designed especially for me.”

      They were still only sandals, and it was raining, for Pete’s sake. She must have realized that he didn’t understand the full significance of what she’d just said because she added, “The day Andy and I bought these was the best day of the past two years. And the only day that turned out anything like I’d planned.”

      So they were a symbol of her lost illusions. Well, thanks to her, Booker had a few lost illusions of his own. Not that he’d possessed many to begin with. His parents had taken care of that early on. “Hop in,” he said. “I’ll get your luggage.”

      

      KATIE SAT WITHOUT TALKING, listening to the hum of the heater and the beat of the wipers as Booker drove into town. Of all the people in Dundee, he was the last person she’d wanted to see. So, of course, he’d been the first one to come along. It was that kind of day—no, year.

      Clasping her hands in her lap, Katie stared glumly out at the familiar buildings they passed. The Honky Tonk, where she used to hang out on weekends. The library, where her friend Delaney, who was now married to Conner Armstrong, used to work. Finley’s Grocery. Katie had once knocked over a whole display of Campbell’s soup there, trying to get a better look at Mike Hill, a boy she’d had a crush on all the time she was growing up.

      “You warm enough?” Booker asked.

      He’d already removed his jacket so she nodded, even though she was still chilled, and he turned down the heat.

      “So,” she said, hoping to ease the tension between them, “how’ve things been since I went away?”

      She could see the scar on his face that ran from his eye to his chin—souvenir of a knife fight, he’d once told her—and the tattoo on his right biceps. It moved beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt as his hands clenched the steering wheel more tightly. But he didn’t respond.

      “Booker?”

      “Don’t pretend we’re friends, Katie,” he said shortly.

      “Why?”

      “Because we’re not.”

      “Oh.” Booker’s friends had always been few. He regarded everyone, except maybe Rebecca Wells—Rebecca Hill since she’d СКАЧАТЬ